


Into the forest I would fly

by Vampiric_Charms



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 16:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10812264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vampiric_Charms/pseuds/Vampiric_Charms
Summary: Maedhros seeks the only solace he knows in the tumbling forces of his life, even with the halting fear it may now not be enough to silence the wandering misery wrapped so solidly around his mind.





	Into the forest I would fly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LiveOakWithMoss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/gifts).



> This is written as a rather belated birthday gift for June. I do apologize for the delay! And, of course, happy, happy birthday! I hope you had a wonderful one. I'll write something super sweet and fluffy and happy for you later to, I dunno, balance this out? But HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Please accept my humble writing as your gift, you awesome person.
> 
>    
> (Also, huge thanks to Naamah for not letting my writer's block stop me completely from writing, and entertaining all of the ridiculous ideas I've had over the weeks. Months. When nothing was actually written for real.)
> 
> As for the tags/warnings - this is angsty sad Maedhros dealing with the things he deals with, but I tried to turn it around as best I could by the end. Mostly, I'd say, hints of PTSD. I do have something far more lighthearted to hopefully write soon! Just bear in mind these bits of warnings for now.
> 
> Enjoy!

****Maedhros paused outside the door with his hand already raised, poised to knock.  The motion, however confident it had been moments before, faltered, and his fist unfurled until he instead pressed his hand flat to the chilly wood.  The corridor around him was dark with the late hour, lit only by sconced fires flickering in Himring’s frozen winds, ever unable to be kept outside as they rattled in through the shuttered windows.

He took in a short breath and let it out again impatiently, listening for any sounds of movement within the quarters he found himself unable to enter.  It was a simple guest bedroom, unremarkable in any way save the occupant supposedly inside.  He was still dressed from his harrowing return home minutes earlier and, in that moment, all he could hear was the squeak of old leather in need of oiling and the clinking rustle of chainmail.  

Maedhros slowly withdrew his hand, turning slightly to lean his head against the smooth wood as he felt his chest ache with disappointment.  The latch could have been hundreds of miles away, for all his hand was capable of moving, and he let his arm fall to his side uselessly.  The room was not empty.  Of course it wasn’t.  But he was unable to bridge the distance now, this late, when surely he was unwanted after such a pitiful welcome as Fingon had endured in his absence.  Always an unnecessary burden on those he loved, a bringer of chaos now, he was, and surely it was not -

The door opened, the latch pulled from the other side, and Maedhros struggled for only a moment to right himself as what he had been using to support his weight was suddenly removed without warning.

Fingon was standing there, wrapped in a heavy dressing gown with his braids loose about his shoulders.  His expression of suspicion changed abruptly into surprise.  “Nelyo?” he whispered, quickly standing back from the door and gesturing inside, making space for him to enter that Maedhros did not use.  Fingon watched him without the fear he found in so many places.  “Come in, please.  The fire is still lit, you look cold.  Are you - did you just get back?  Maedhros, _gracious_ , you’re covered in blood!”

Maedhros still hesitated on the threshold, holding up his arms helplessly and gazing down at his body in a dazed sort of way, his thoughts wandering away.  His chest ached again, a bitter, vile thing creeping up his throat to claw inside his mouth as he saw the splatters of blood old and new dotting his stiff clothing.

“It is not mine.”

“Get in here,” Fingon demanded quietly, not paying attention to his soft statement and tugging at his shoulder until he moved, “come on.”

Fingon left Maedhros standing dumbly just inside as he closed the door and walked toward the dressing stand, where a shallow bowl of water was still left from when he had bathed himself earlier.  Maedhros let his eyes wander as the soothing sounds of splashing joined the crackle of fire, taking in the perfectly made bed and the nest of blankets on the low couch before the cheerful hearth.  Fingon’s bags were left unopened, save what he had needed to change for sleep that had obviously not come, and were in a heap by the window barred against snow.

“I apologize,” Maedhros murmured absently.

“Oh?” Fingon replied shortly, returning to his side and taking his chin into one hand to study his dirty features.  He turned Maedhros’s face away with more gentleness than his tone suggested, scrubbing at his scarred cheek with a damp cloth.  “And what do you apologize for, exactly? _Leaving_ , perhaps?  A mere three days before I was due to arrive, fleeing gleefully off to battle without a word?”  He paused, though Maedhros knew this was not meant for him to interject.  Fingon sighed, his touch still soft and cool against his skin as the cloth moved down his neck.  “You frighten me sometimes, Nelyo.  I never know -”

There was another pause as Fingon’s words fell off with a sigh, and Maedhros let his eyes slip closed, losing himself in the gentleness, the lull of Fingon’s touch and his voice and his nearness and wondering if this was real, or if this moment was a dream he was going to wake from over and over as the familiar smell of blood was stirred once more in his nose.

“You are not listening to me,” Fingon chided softly with a poke to his temple.  “Where are you?  Nelyo?”  He hummed, a discontented sound in his throat, when Maedhros did not respond, and suddenly two hands were firm against his cheeks, the cloth dropped to the floor, and his face was being guided back to the front again.  

“Look at me, Nelyo, open your eyes.  Come back, hmm.  Come back.”

It was a command he could not disobey and, slowly, he brought his battle-weary gaze to the bright blue one so nearby.  Fingon smiled at him, brushing his thumbs ever so gently across the broken ridges of Maedhros’s cheekbones, his pocked skin.  The scent of blood faded as their focus realigned together, taking with it the hazy remnants of dream-linmed confusion that had been hanging so heavily.

The soft smile lessened somewhat from Fingon’s lips as he moved one hand back to run his fingers over the tangled mess of Maedhros’s hair.  Meadhros, for his part, did not move.  “I never know,” Fingon said quietly after a moment, continuing his thought from moments earlier, “if I will see you again, when you ride off so heedlessly into skirmishes that do not truly need you.  As I said, you frighten me sometimes.”

“I do not wish to frighten you.”

“I know you don’t.”  

The grin returned to Fingon’s face, though the corners of his lips were tight with unease.  Maedhros clenched his teeth at the sight, the whispers in his head beginning to moan again until he looked away, breaking his face from Fingon’s grip.  Fingon let him go, not fighting or holding him back as he stumbled over his own feet toward the fire.

Maedhros stood there for a moment, feeling the warmth of the flames against his cold, cold face and the warmth of Fingon’s eyes watching him from so very far away.  His muscles trembled but, still, he found himself unable to fall, standing so tall and so straight with his eyes so painful as they searched for things he could not find.

Fingon’s footsteps were soft across the heavy rugs, approaching him slowly, and Maedhros finally sank down onto the low couch behind him without fully allowing his body to relax.  It held stiff, forward and alert, always ready and never, never able to let go.  Fingon walked calmly around the couch’s edge, ever watchful, but a touch to his shoulder or hair or back never came.

There was silence, filled with the crackling, popping fire and the howling wind and the screaming in Maedhros’s head that he was not entirely sure was contained.

“Do you remember, Nelyo, a day we spent by the river?  Another lifetime ago now, it seems.”  

Fingon sat down close, still not quite touching even as he tucked his feet up under himself and turned slightly to study Maedhros’s face in the firelight.  “It was nearing dusk and we needed to find the horses, but neither of us wanted to rise from the grass and the flowers to call them.  The Lights were mingling, and the blossoms around us were so very fragrant.  You had braided them into my hair with my ribbons.  I wanted to stay there forever.  I looked at you just then, just _so_ …”  

His voice faded off for a moment, a hand reaching slightly forward, enough to tuck wayward strands of coppery hair behind a tattered ear.  Fingon hummed, a sweet sound in his throat that could almost have been a bit of song had Maedhros been focused enough to comprehend the notes.

“I looked at you in that light reflected from the water,” Fingon continued in a keen whisper, “and I knew then I loved you with all my soul, that I never wished for us to be parted.”  He smiled, not put off when the gesture was not returned.  “I’ve told you this story before, Maedhros, and I will tell you again over and over.  I - ”  

Another pause, another gentle hum, and this time Fingon reached out to brush his fingers feather-light across Maedhros’s jaw, to his cheek, until Maedhros finally turned his head to bring his wary eyes to the steady blue gaze always waiting there for him.  The smile still across Fingon’s face turned warm, kind with all the love he spoke of, and Maedhros felt the chaos fluttering through his mind begin to loosen its hold ever so slightly.  He let out a stuttered breath and Fingon’s hand pressed tight against his cheek.

“I recognize your fear, Nelyo, I see your panic and your dread as plainly as if we had just returned from that _wretched_ mountain.”  Fingon sat up on his knees and shuffled closer, putting his other hand to Maedhros’s face to cup both cheeks and turn his gaze upward to remain locked with his own.  Maedhros, for his part, did not fight the arrangement as Fingon spoke to him in hushed, urgent tones.  “And I do not clearly follow where it is you are going when you close your eyes, or why it is happening now, again, after so long, and you are certainly not going to speak on the matter - but I am here and I am never going to leave you, regardless of what goes through that Fëanorian mind of yours.  Will that suffice for the time being?”

“The blood,” Maedhros choked out, surprising them both with the suddenness of it, the brokenness.

 _Yes_ , he had wanted to say, _yes, of course, that will always suffice, stay with me and do not ever leave.  You heal me, you do.  I love you.  I remember that day as plainly as you do, I will never forget, never._

But those precious words did not come and now Fingon was staring at him in concern, sitting back on his heels and his thumbs making gentle little circles against the sagging, scarred, tired skin of his cheeks, and all Maedhros could do was gape back at him with searing desperation he hadn’t felt until it all bubbled up through his throat like bile.  

“The blood - it - I - ”

Fingon understood, Fingon always understood.  

Without pause, he ushered Maedhros back to his feet and began undressing him, speaking of trivial things as layers were peeled away and bloody armor or garments were removed one by one.  The smell retreated with them, left in a heap by the door to be shoved into the hall later, out of sight.  Fingon worked quickly, retrieving again the washing bowl and cloth to clean his skin of anything left.  There were oils, suddenly, smelling brightly of herbs being rubbed over his shoulders, arms, and then through his hair, which Fingon had to battle with a brush before pulling back into a single braid.  

And then -

And then it was _gone_.  The scent, the color, the foul dreams and memories he could no longer recall as falsities or as truths.  Confusion tumbled around him as his consciousness shifted again.  Bits and pieces hounded at the edges, waiting to return, and he swallowed them back, sighing with relief as it all retreated, away, away, away.  

His eyes fluttered closed and he did not open them again.

Fingon tugged at his arm, guiding him not toward the couch and fire this time but toward the bed, and his shove then left no room for argument.  “Sleep,” Fingon murmured, waiting until he was settled in the many pillows and blankets before falling in close beside him.  “ _Rest_ , you great fool.  I’m still here.  And tomorrow, Nelyo, we shall go find the sunlight through all of this madness and miserable snow, yes?”

“Yes,” Maedhros whispered in return, the word slipping from his lips like a prayer as Fingon’s hand passed over his face and his hair and the turn of his ear in sweet, gentle sweeps, lulling him into a sleep he had avoided for so long away from these walls and these arms where nothing else awaited him.  “Yes, yes, we shall.”

Nothing more was said.

 


End file.
